


The Blessed of R'hllor

by Pyreite



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Acolytes of the Red Temple, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshai, Dragons, F/M, Lord of Light - Freeform, Plans, Post - Game of Thrones (TV), Post-Game of Thrones, Post-Season 8 Episode 6, Precognition, Prophetic Dreams, R'hllor - Freeform, Red Priestess, Resurrection, The Red Temple of Volantis, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyreite/pseuds/Pyreite
Summary: [Post-GOT Finale] Daenerys died at the hands of Jon Snow.  She wakes bewildered and afraid days later in the heart of the Red Temple of Volantis, miraculously alive.  Daario Naharis, the guest of Kinvara the High Priestess is reunited with Dany on the eve of her resurrection.





	The Blessed of R'hllor

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and updated with improved dialogue, and streamlined descriptions. Slight changes in plot with Dany having plans of her own.

Daenerys awoke pale and shivering, her eyes flying open. The world was a blur of colour so bright it burned. She recoiled, gasping, turning her face from the light. A frantic shake of her head made her ears ring. She slapped her hands over them, trying to block out the rush of sound.

She flopped onto the bed, burrowing into her blankets. She whimpered like a wounded animal. It hurt to see, to hear, and even to think. The blood pulsed in her ears with every beat of her heart. So loud and repetitive it was like listening to a hammer strike an anvil.

Boom, boom, boom. 

Her head was so full of noise, she wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t. She sucked in a ragged breath, lungs labouring like a blacksmith’s bellows. Each inhale was slow and shuddering, an exertion that left her shaking down to her toes. Her chest felt uncomfortably tight as if it were bound by a corset. The bones of her ribs digging-in like knives each time she exhaled.

She clawed at her throat, trying to loosen the collar of her sleeping shift. The ring of fabric tore with a snake-like hiss that frightened her. Daenerys ripped it from her person with a scream, casting it from the bed as if it were alive. The effort left her breathless and trembling as if she’d run a mile. She toppled back onto the bed, panting with exhaustion.

She closed her eyes, counting backwards in High Valyrian. She mouthed each number, distracting herself from the maelstrom of colour and noise. Time ceased to exist, that sense of urgency disappearing as she willed herself to calm down. Everything was too bright, too loud, and all too overwhelming until it wasn’t. The brightness once blinding faded to the dull amber of candlelight.

The roar of sound once deafening softened to the steady thrum of her own heartbeat. She breathed more easily, though it still hurt to think. Her thoughts were fragmented, a jumble of confused memories, and half-remembered dreams. Daenerys sensed the horror beyond the veil of sleep, a shadow with a flash of silver in a gloved hand. Her eyes were dry, itchy, and red-rimmed from weeping.

She rubbed at her face, feeling the salt on her lashes crumble beneath her fingers.

“Dany”.

She stiffened at the whisper of her name, uttered with such concern she heard the love in each syllable. She rolled over, hiding her face in the folds of her pillow. Pale hands clamped over her ears again. The voice was muffled, though she still heard those selfsame syllables. It was not her name but the word that followed that got her attention.

It was uttered with a desperation twined with grief, as if the person calling out had thought her dead.

Few people in Westeros had ever begged her for anything but mercy. This person, whomever they were, pleaded as if she lay on her death bed. Daenerys heard their anguish, a sudden rasp of breath as if they were trying to hold in their grief. Her name was repeated with an escalating dread that was more distressing than a comfort.

“Dany. Please”.

But no one cared if she lived or died. Was she not the mad Targaryen Queen? More a tyrant than a saviour. Dany felt the frayed edges of her temper ignite. She was weary, bewildered, and furious that this wretch was disturbing what few moments of peace she’d had.

“Be quiet!” she snapped, teeth clenching. “If you cannot be silent then go away! Death was kind until I awoke in this nightmare! Drogo was there, my son Rhaego, and my sweet Jorah too! And for a little while, I was happy again!”

There was a mad scramble, the thud of boot-heels on the floor. Dany squealed when the blankets were torn from her face. The light surged inward like a deluge of fire, licking its way across her skin with tongues of red-flame. She lashed out with hands and feet when something looped about her ankles. Her wrists were next, bound by shackles as strong as a band of iron.

“Daor!” she cried in High Valyrian, lapsing in her panic into the mother-tongue of Essos. “Daor!”

The tears came thick and fast when she found herself restrained. She opened her eyes, expecting to see a gaoler with chains in hand. She gasped when she saw fair skin, dark eyes, and black hair. The thin moustache and short prickly beard along the line of his jaw terrified her. She recognised that beloved face.

“Dany! Calm down! It’s me!

She gaped at him, her eyes wide and fearful. He couldn’t be here! Could he? Had he returned to finish her off? Her breath hitched, her chest heaving as she begged him to spare her life.

“Daor, Jon!” she cried. “Daor! Daor!”

Daenerys wept in frustration, writhing like a wild thing. Adrenaline set her nerves afire when his arms and legs locked about her own. There were no chains, no shackles, and no bars of a cage. He held her down with all the strength he had, his arms were wrapped about her waist. His legs were around her thighs, his ankles crossing behind the dip of her kneecaps.

“Daor!” squealed Daenerys. “Daor!”

Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a savage snarl. She’d intended to bite him, to rip and tear him to pieces until two words came out of his mouth. She went still in his arms when he repeated the phrase. It was said in heavily accented High Valyrian. Daenerys recognised the emphasis he put on the hiss of the ‘S’ in the command and the plea that followed.

“Kelītīs! Kostilus, Dany!”

She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder, more startled than afraid. “You speak High Valyrian”, she croaked, throat tight when he nodded slow and deliberate. She studied his face, frowning in confusion. Was he not the man that’d shared her bed on the ship to Winterfell? He certainly resembled Jon Snow. 

From the darkness of his hair, the brown of his eyes, and the black bristles of his beard. Daenerys saw the man she’d loved. But something was off. He seemed older, his face weathered, and craggy as if he’d aged a decade. His cheeks were softer than Jon’s, the line of his jaw less square and more angular.

He had the maturity of a man in his prime, not a boy forced to grow up too soon in the shadows of the lands beyond the Wall. 

He spoke a language Jon didn’t too.

“You speak High Valyrian”, reiterated Dany, her lower-lip trembling. The tears trickled down her cheeks. “Jon doesn’t speak High Valyrian”. She took a second look at him, recognising the thicker brows, the wider nose, and that thinner harder mouth. “Daario?” she called, hesitant until he nodded with that same deliberation.

He was patient where Jon might’ve acted too hastily.

“It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe”.

Daenerys relented with a sigh of profound relief. Daario’s touch gentled when her composure broke in a flood of tears. She went limp in his arms, the fight going out of her. She was as docile as a lamb when Daario dragged her across the bed. Daenerys wept when he kissed her forehead. 

Daario tucked her head beneath his chin. “He can’t hurt you anymore”.

“I loved him”, she sobbed, burying her face in the curve of his throat. “I was such a fool. I sacrificed everything and everyone for him. My throne, my children, my people. Poor gentle Missandei and loyal Jorah. Everything I did meant nothing to him at all. Jon Snow killed me”.

“I know”, Daario murmured into the tousled mess of her silver hair. “I saw what he did to you”.

Daenerys wanted to ask how he knew until she felt him tremble. The arms around her tightened as if he were afraid to let her go. The calloused fingers gripping her hips dug-in like claws. She quietened when she felt the tremor in the thighs draped across her own. Daario Naharis, lieutenant of the Seconds Sons shook like a leaf in the wind. 

“Daario?”

His voice was rough with emotion. Daenerys heard the despair, the fear, and the heartache. 

“You were dead when Drogon brought you to the Red Temple. I saw the blood, Dany. The tear in your clothes. You’d been stabbed through the heart. It was a swift and cruel death, the work of a coward”.

Daenerys knew that he was right.

“The Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt. The Breaker of Chains slain by a blade to the heart. No one could’ve gotten close enough to kill you unless you’d been distracted. You had Grey Worm, the Unsullied, and Drogon protecting you. It should never have happened”.

“But it did”, whispered Dany. “I died”.

“I know!” spat Daario with sudden fury, his dark eyes blazing. “If I should ever have the pleasure of meeting this Jon Snow! I’ll kill him! You gave up everything you loved for him! Only to have that sacrifice thrown back in your face!”

“Daario!”

“He slew you like the coward he is!” he snarled as if her death were an insult. “How much did you lose to please him?”

Dany stared at him, watery-eyed, and meek as a mouse. “Everything I had including my heart”.

“Don’t you think he should lose everything he loves too?”

She shied beneath his gaze, unsure of herself for the first time in years. “I don’t know”.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” demanded Daario. “Fire and blood are the words of your house! Your family!”

“I know, but I have to go somewhere first”.

“Where would you go if not back to Westeros?”

Daenerys tensed at the sharpness of his question. She laid a hand on his chest, her fingers seeking the reassuring beat of his heart. She stilled when she found it, sighing as she pressed her cheek against his shirt. She heard that steady thrum, pounding like a drum beneath his ribs. It soothed her as sure as a mother’s lullaby comforted a frightened child. Daenerys reflected on the dreams she’d had between dying in Westeros and waking in Volantis. 

“I dreamt of a flash of silver in the darkness. Of a gloved hand grasping a dagger stained red with my blood. Then I saw a city, its roads, walls, and buildings were black as night beneath a searing red sun. Beyond was a narrow valley between cliffs so high and sheer, the land beneath was in constant shadow. It was there that I heard a dragon’s roar as loud and clear as if it were a clap of thunder”. 

Daario frowned. “You dreamt of the shadowlands beyond Asshai?”

“You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it. It is said that Ghost grass grows there like weeds”.

“I must go there”, declared Daenerys. “Quaithe told me that to touch the light, I must pass beneath the shadow. If there are dragons in the shadowlands beyond Asshai. That is where I must take Drogon. My son lost his brothers because of me. If I am to save him, if I am to ensure he has a future than I must become his mother again”.

She sniffled, remembering the children she’d lost. Pale and proud Viserion, and the dark, ever fierce Rhaegal with his wings of jade. She’d loved them as if she’d birthed them from her own womb. A pair of dragons, scaled and vicious. Legends given wings, the children of flame. 

“You should be avenged!” challenged Daario. “You were betrayed! Murdered!”

Daenerys shook her head, the tears leaking from her eyes. “My last remaining son is all that matters to me. I don’t care about vengeance, the Iron Throne, or the people of Westeros. He is all that I have left from my life before I died. Don’t you see? If Drogon dies without heirs, without a clutch of his own than what little magic is left in the world will die too”.

“Dany! He’s a dragon!”

She smacked him then, the flat of her hand landing hard against his chest.

Daario gaped at her in astonishment. “You slapped me over a dragon. A gigantic scaly black lizard the size of a whale that breathes fire. I think Drogon is quite capable of looking after himself. You however will need all the help you can get”.

“Drogon is not just a dragon!” snapped Daenerys. “He is my son! If I must find him a mate in the shadowlands beyond Asshai! I will! You can come with me or leave my side forever!”

Daario snorted as if he thought her idea absurd. “You’re mad if you think you’re going anywhere without me ever again. You sailed to Westeros and got yourself killed. The same thing would happen in Asshai if I wasn’t there to watch your back. We’ll leave Volantis together when you’re ready”.

“You’re coming with me?” she asked, a little unnerved by his abrupt agreement.

“Of course I am”.

“Oh”.

“You’re surprised?”

“A little”, said Dany. “We didn’t part on good terms when last we saw each other in Meereen”.

“Fuck Meereen”, swore Daario. “If your son is all that matters to you”, he stated, choosing his words carefully as not to insult her. “Then you’re all that matters to me. I swore my sword to you, and my life for what little it was worth”.

“You’re still angry with me for leaving you behind”.

“Of course I am”, he grumbled. “You died”.

“I was betrayed”, insisted Dany. “I didn’t die on purpose to spite you”.

“Are you sure? I was so upset, I cried. You’ve ruined my reputation. Ow! Stop slapping me! It was a joke!”

“A poor one”.

“I’m a sellsword not a jester”.

“Obviously”.

Daario smiled into her hair. He was glad to have her back. She’d lost none of her fire. “Enough excitement”, he told her. “You should rest”.

“Yes”, she agreed. “But first I must grieve for what could’ve been”. 

She sucked in a shaky breath, recalling the circumstances of her death. The kiss had been a distraction as Jon had driven the blade up between her ribs. The pain had been short and sharp like the brush of nettles against her skin. She hadn’t expected the frigid burn or the glide of steel across her bones. Jon had pierced her heart with ease.

A turn of his wrist, a twist of the blade, and she’d been taken unawares.

The surprise had given way to disbelief then outrage when she’d gazed into his eyes. That fury had blazed brightest when his implacable calm had broken. She’d seen the devastation on his face when he’d sucked in an anguished breath. He’d caught her before she’d fallen, easing her down into the snow. The tears had slipped down his cheeks, hot, wet, and full of shame.

Daenerys remembered the chill seeping through her clothes. The cold creeping inside her skin, paralysing her lungs until she couldn't draw breath. It'd hurt for what’d felt like an eternity, a last dying gasp as her bones had turned to ice. The fire that'd sustained her since childhood guttered like a candle-flame in a gust of wind. The blood of the Dragon had gushed into the snow like wine from a broken bottle.

Rich, red, and pungent. Her lifesblood had smelt like wet steel, but had tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Jon’s betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow. A difficult thing to accept when Daenerys considered the history she shared with him. Blood called to blood, but being half-Targaryen hadn’t stopped him from killing her. The part of him that was a Stark, the wolf inside his skin had turned on her at the first sign of corruption. Daenerys didn’t doubt Jon had sniffed it out when she’d proposed to liberate the world in a tide of fire and blood. 

He’d pierced her heart with a fang of steel.

Daenerys found the comparison of his nature to the lupine sigil of his mother’s house unsettling. Jon Snow, named Aegon Targaryen at birth, had been more a dire-wolf than a dragon. Snow was his element not fire. He was a creature of the ice, more comfortable south of the Wall than anywhere north of Winterfell. Daenerys thought herself a fool to ever think she could’ve tamed him.

“You should have taken me with you to Westeros”, growled Daario. “I could have protected you”.

The guilt burned in Dany’s breast like fire. He was right, though she was loathe to admit it. The regret hurt worse than the blade Jon had plunged into her heart. She’d denied Daario like she’d denied Jorah. She’d seen their love as an inconvenience, something to be enjoyed then cast away like a child’s plaything.

And she had died without realising how precious that love was.

“I’m sorry!” cried Dany. 

“So am I”, whispered Daario. 

He held her close until the tears dried upon her cheeks. Daenerys surrendered to fatigue, going still in his arms. She fell asleep, exhausted in mind and body. Daario didn’t relax until her breathing evened out. The bosom heaving against his chest reassured him that she was still alive. 

He laid his cheek upon the crown of her head, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight. 

He glared at the priestess and her gaggle of acolytes hovering at the foot of Dany’s bed. All were garbed in the red robes of the faithful devoted to R'hllor. The High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis was tall and slender like a reed. She was fair as a flower with dark hair and eyes the colour of the sky after a thunderstorm. She smiled with a feline satisfaction that made Daario’s skin crawl.

For all her beauty, Kinvara had a frightening otherworldly quality about her.

“Did I not say that your love was well?”, she asked. “Yet you would not accept my word for the truth it was”. She gestured to him with a casual flick of her fingers. “So here you are, disturbing her slumber when she should be resting. Our Queen has endured much for the sake of the Lord of Light”.

“She died!” hissed Daario. “Was that part of his plan?”

“Of course it was”, replied Kinvara with a calm solemnity that infuriated him. “Only in dying could she achieve all he had intended. Why are you upset? The Lord returned her to life for you. A gift granted to but a treasured few of his servants”.

Daario had heard enough. “Get out!”

Kinvara smiled again, her cheeks dimpling. “You are a guest in the Red Temple of Volantis. It is not for you to command those that serve our Lord. You are permitted to stay here because he has need of your service”. She nodded to Daenerys, sleeping in his arms. 

“She needs time to heal. You will be the Lord’s instrument in protecting her. When she has recovered. You will accompany her on the journey to Asshai. Until then you will shadow her every step, night and day”.

Daario was suspicious. “What’s in this for you?”

Kinvara bowed her head as if in obeisance. “Daenerys Stormborn is the Lord’s will made flesh. A blessing unto the world. The mother of our Lord’s first children. Through her deeds soon all the world will sing in praise of him”.

Daario glanced from the red priestess to her acolytes. Many faces, fair and dark, bowed their heads in the reverent way of fanatical believers. He saw the fervent admiration in their eyes as they chanced a look at the silver-haired daughter of R’hllor. Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, and the Breaker of Chains was more than a woman. She was the fulfilment of a prophecy thousands of years in the making.

Daario realised with horror that the acolytes of R'hllor thought Dany was a miracle. He said nothing when Kinvara dismissed them with a flap of her hand. The acolytes bowed at the waist before departing in a whisper of red robes. Kinvara remained, still smiling as Daario glanced upon his lover’s weary face. The High Priestess of R’hllor gave him one last parting piece of news.

“I will give my thanks to Drogon for delivering his mother into our keeping. He caused quite the stir in the temple square when he arrived three days ago. I see that he has not been idle. If you are here than he wishes to know if his mother is well. I will take my leave of you, Daario Naharis”. 

A polite nod and she turned away in a swish of red skirts.

Daario asked an odd question before she left Daenerys’ room.

“You can speak to dragons?”

Kinvara’s reply made his skin prickle with unease.

“All priests of the Red Temple can converse with spirits of shadow and flame. What is a dragon if not the living embodiment of fire? I am a red priestess. My words will soothe him. Drogon knows that of any place in Essos, the Lord of Light’s blessed is safest here”.

Daario didn’t believe in gods, fate, or prophecies. But he sensed Kinvara was telling the truth. If Dany was the promised saviour of the Red God than she was safest in the halls of his house. No one from the Red Wastes to the shores of Braavos would dare lay a hand on her here. Daario wondered what her resurrection would mean for Essos.

If the people of Westeros thought her dead.

Would the peoples of Essos embrace her as their own if she brought more dragons to the east?

* * *

  **Glossary – High Valyrian**

* * *

Daor _– _No._ _

Kelītīs _– _Halt (order)._ _

Kostilus _– _Please, perhaps._ _


End file.
